HOMAGE TO THE RESCUED ROYALTY OF ENGLAND. That swells the bosom of earth's mightiest nation! The willing homage of our free-born souls: Incarnate; and her mandates through thee gives. H. DEAR PROTEUS, THE JOKE-ASSASSIN. BY MRS. DR. CAUSTIC. I HAVE not time, this month, to forward you more than the following anecdote. The circumstance occurred, au pied de lettre, when I was last in Paris: M. Fouinet was a very foolish man; but, as fortune favours fools much more frequently than the brave, like the major part of the greatest fools I have ever met with, he inherited a handsome fortune, and, being very much of a fanatico for music and the arts, he aspired to the character of a Mæcenas. He was exceedingly fickle in his tastes, and, pursued by the busy dæmon within him, oscillated between the Louvre and the stage, and ran an alternate gauntlet of the studio and the green-room. In consideration of his entertainments, he was usually spared by the malins esprits before his face, though, when his back was once turned, he was uniformly quizzed unmercifully. Poor dupe! of this he never entertained the slightest suspicion, but thought himself universally regarded in the light of a worshipful patron. He professed himself the warm friend of every description of artist, and this was precisely the way to be esteemed as a friend by none of them in return. At the period of which I speak, his intermittent rage for the drama was in the ascendant. He gave half a dozen dramatic déjeuners, within half that number of weeks, tutoi-ed every actor of the slightest repute in Paris, kissed the hand of the prettiest actresses, after having made them a present of the most expensive bouquets; and was hand-in-glove with the box-keeper, to whom probably he had given a receipt for curing his corns. Still he was not quite happy; for the calembourg reigns despotically in every green-room in Paris, just as its cousin-german, punning, does in London; and poor M. Fouinet never could comprehend, much less make, a calembourg. One day he entered the greenroom of the Theatre de Vaudevilles, and seizing the hand of Bardou, a celebrated comic actor; "Eh, bien, mon gros (said he) que dit-on de neuf ? Bardou, who did not like this allusion to his obesity, looked hard at M. Fouinet, and, with an expressive leer, replied: 66 Eh! eh! M. Fouinet, on dit de neuf que c'est la moitié de dixhuit!” The point will be made perceptible to the purely English reader by mentioning that, owing to the double meaning of the word "neuf," Fouinet's question might signify either, "What do they say that is new?" or, "What do they say of nine?" to which Bardou's answer, accepting it in the latter sense, was, that "it is the half of eighteen!" M. Fouinet was quite nonplussed, but, recovering his self-possession, ah! thinks he, this calembourg is quite new; I shall appropriate it, and show it off this evening. He gets into an omnibus, and in an hour after entered the green-room of the Theatre de la Gaité, with his hat pulled over his eyes, his frock coat buttoned to the chin, and raising his eyes and hands as he muttered, "Good God! who would have thought it?" The actors looked at him with surprise. "What can this mean?" (said each to his neighbour), “ is it possible that the excellent M. Fouinet has been ruined-betrayed by one of his numerous soi-disant conquests!" and a titter went through the foyer. "Whence proceeds this lugubrious air?" inquired M. Delaistre, an actor of some celebrity, in the hollow sepulchral tone, which has contributed so much to his dramatic fame. "Ah! my friend, if you only knew it ?"-" Speak !"-"Oh, it is too horrible to relate-more melan choly than any thing in the Tour de Nesle!"-"Mais enfin, voyons, qu, y a-t-il de nouveau ?" "De nouveau !" cried Fouinet, perfectly delighted, and absolutely cutting a caper, 'on dit de nouveau, que c'est la moitié de dix-huit!" The poor imbecile had introduced, "THE MOTHER'S HEART." BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.* WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, And meekly-cheerful-such wert thou, my child ! Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying ; Nor leaving in thy turn; but pleased to glide Through the dark room where I was sadly lying, Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower, Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing, Like a young sunbeam to the gladden'd earth! Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy, And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth; And thine was many an art to win and bless, The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming; Again my heart a new affection found, But thought that love with thee had reach'd its bound. At length THOU camest; thou, the last and least ; Because a haughty spirit swell'd thy breast, And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others; Mingling with every playful infant wile A mimic majesty that made us smile :- * From "The Dream, and other Poems," just published by Colburn. And oh most like a regal child wert thou! Nor injured either, by this love's comparing, One of the most splendid balls of the season took place a few days since in Paris at the Austrian Ambassador's. A Parisian Journal de Modes, in describing the scene, indulges in the most extravagant fioriture of style. "The dancing (it says) invaded three splendid saloons on the rez-de-chaussée. The first was furnished with valets-de-pied decorated with baskets of the choicest flowers. The second was garnished with flower-baskets placed upon valets-de-pied. The third was no less splendid than the first, and equally rich as the second! All the young ladies had wreaths of roses in their hair. How shall I paint the charms (he asks) of all those fairylike enchantresses? and then he proceeds with the following enumeration :-" C'était Mlle d'Appony, ་་ aux cheveux chatains, Mlles Sabine |